Chapter 600: Poisoned apple (1)

They were happy — by the gods, they

were

happy — and who could blame them?

Five months ago, they had stood alone on the battlefield, staring down the combined might of two proud princes and a snarling pack of rebel lords.

It didn’t matter that four brutal months later,

they

were the ones left standing tall atop the smoking ruins of their enemies’ ambitions. No festival, no victory feast, no amount of golden laurel wreaths could ever bleach out the raw memory of that hopelessness—the cold, gnawing certainty that they would be crushed under a tide of spears and forgotten in shallow graves.

Of course, Alpheo had never once doubted himself. Nor, at least outwardly, had he ever doubted his chances. But even he would not wish that kind of "certainty" upon himself again. Victory was sweet—but it had come from chewing bitter stones.

So yes, it was perfectly understandable, entirely human, that the men and women gathered around him now could scarcely contain their excitement at the news he had just dropped on their heads like a gilded hammer.

"The Romelians want

us

as allies!" Jasmine cried out, nearly bouncing in her seat, her voice cracking with joy so unbefitting of royalty that Alpheo almost smiled, if he was not tense from what would comes next ."The Great Apple, the Protector of the Star,

he

proposed such a thing to

us

! Who would have ever thought?" She beamed with the giddy disbelief of a blind woman who woke one morning to find the world ablaze with color.

Even Shahab, always stoic as a stone, was grinning so widely that Alpheo half-feared the old man’s face might simply split in two.

Shahab, after all, had borne the thankless burden of their foreign relations for years, long before the war when Yarzat was little more than a punchline.It had been hard enough convincing other crowns to take them seriously when their crown princess had married a common-born mercenary, but it was near-impossible when they had thirty years of failure and humiliation trailing behind them like a broken cart, all thanks to a man whose only good thing done was dying while having an unmarried daughter.

As for Now? The mighty Romelians themselves—the lords of the Eastern Continent, the jewel of civilization—had proposed an

alliance

.

It was, for them, a miracle.

It made the duty that now fell upon Alpheo’s shoulders feel all the heavier, the weight of the cold bucket he would soon have to throw upon their heads, all the more tragic.For a moment, he let them bask in the glow of their hope, let them dream wide and foolish dreams.

Then, he cleared his throat softly, the sound cutting through the joy like a thin dagger through silk.

There were golden apples in this world, true.

But not all of them were meant to be eaten.

"Why aren’t you smiling, Alph’?" Egil asked, his voice low and tense. He wore a grimace, and it unsettled him to notice that same grimace ghosting over Alpheo’s face too.It gnawed at him. This was supposed to be a

good

day, wasn’t it?

After all, wasn’t this a victory? Wasn’t this the world finally bending their way for once?

Well, it turned out not everyone in the room saw it that way.While Jasmine and Shahab were nearly floating in their chairs, radiant with exhilaration, Alpheo’s old companions—the ones who had bled and fought and gambled everything on his banner—looked about as pleased as cats dropped into a muddy river.

Each of them, more or less, carried the same old wounds in their chests.They remembered too well: the Romelians weren’t some distant, kindly patrons—they were the masters who had once cracked whips over their backs.To be bound by an alliance to them, no matter how gilded the chains, tasted bitter as wormwood.Still, they were practical folk. They weren’t stupid enough to lash out without thinking. Bitter, yes—but not fools.

And among them, the one whose fury was a hair away from boiling over was Egil.He, who had not only worn the collar of a slave but had seen his entire tribe broken and scattered like leaves before the Romelian boots.He was the first to truly notice Alpheo’s face—not the false calm he wore for the others, but the taut, unreadable expression beneath.

It didn’t take long for the rest to catch the scent of wrongness hanging in the air.

"Is something wrong?" Jasmine asked, her voice a tremor of confusion, the brightness in her eyes dimming a little.Her gaze met Alpheo’s with a softness that, somehow, unsettled him far more than Egil’s scowl.It was harder to break the heart of the woman you loved than the bones of the enemies you hated.

Alpheo let the silence stretch for a heartbeat longer than was comfortable, letting the weight of what was coming settle over them.Then he spoke, his voice measured, firm.

"As a matter of fact," he said, "there is."

That snapped every pair of eyes to him like iron to a lodestone.The cheer of moments ago vanished, whisked away by the cold wind of those few simple words.

Alpheo rose slightly from his chair, steadying himself with a hand on the table."I ask," he continued, his tone brokering no argument, "that you hear me out fully before any of you rush to anger.What I am about to say may taste foul on your tongues, but you must let me finish before you sharpen your blades against it."

The room shifted uneasily.Some arms crossed tightly, some hands clenched under the table; a few backs stiffened as if preparing for a blow.

But they said nothing.They waited.

The smiles of a moment ago had died a swift death.

Alpheo let out a slow breath, gathering the words on his tongue like a careful player arranging his pieces before a decisive move.

"I would like us to refuse the offer," he said, voice low but steady, cutting through the charged stillness of the room like a blade through cloth.

A ripple of surprise flickered across the faces gathered around him, but to their credit, none leapt up in protest, none cursed or roared in anger as he half-feared they might.Instead, Shahab simply asked with a slight tilt of his head, "For what reason?"

Alpheo couldn’t help but feel a flash of gratitude.How much easier it was to speak plainly in front of calm minds, rather than batter words against a wall of raw emotion.

I prefer speaking as thinking men, than as wild dogs with scraps of meat.

He moved slowly around the room as he talked, the measured pacing of a man both thinking and testing the weight of his own words."I have a habit," he began, "of asking myself two questions whenever someone presents me with a gift, or a kindness, or—" he gave a wry, sharp smile "—or really any action."

He paused, letting them lean forward, eager or wary.

"First," he said, raising a finger, "I ask:

What do they gain from this?

"He raised a second finger."If it is not that then Second:

What pain are they trying to avoid?

"

He let the silence linger a moment before continuing."In my experience, every action falls into one of three categories:A man acts to cut his losses or prevent suffering.A man acts because he sees something to gain.Or—" and here his lip curled slightly with disdain, "—a man acts carelessly, without thought, driven by some fleeting whim."

He swept the room with his gaze, heavy and sharp.

"And useless to say, the offer made by the Romelians fits none of these."

The words struck the gathering like the sudden, chill snap of a winter wind.No one interrupted him.

"It bothers me greatly," Alpheo said, his tone darkening, "to accept a hand when I do not know what lies hidden in the other."

It was Jarza who stepped forward next, his broad, scarred hands resting on the table as he leaned in, his eyes narrowed not in confusion but in quiet, simmering agreement.

"It doesn’t make sense," Jarza he agreed "From their high seat what are we to them? An upstart princedom at the fringe of their border . If they had anything to gain from lifting us, it would have been done long ago."He shook his head."More likely, they do this not for gain, but out of a different kind of fear—or worse, some plan that benefits them more than it does us."

Alpheo nodded once, sharply, like a general acknowledging good counsel from a trusted captain.

"Tell me," he said, "how many soldiers could the Romelians actually send to our aid, should we be called upon to march for them?"He let the question hang, unanswered, before he continued, driving his point home.

"And now," he said, "think: how many soldiers could we raise to fight to support them?’’

The answer needed no words. It was written plainly across the faces of those assembled.

"It is clear as day," he finished, "who would bleed more—and who would benefit most.Which makes the offer even more confusing."

He said , as no matter how much he racked his brain, he could not find a single reason that would make this exchange beneficial for their neighbor, which made the sweet treat given to them smell as foul as shit.